


La Grippe

by LadyWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Backstory, Feels, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, One Shot, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), caring Aziraphale, frienship, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 07:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21266963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWallace/pseuds/LadyWallace
Summary: Aziraphale had watched it take too many lives already, he wasn't going to let it take his friend too. It was lucky then that he just happened to stumble across that deserted barn somewhere in the green fields of France. Sick!Crowley Historical backstory





	La Grippe

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [La Grippe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020653) by [cosplay_of_nothingness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosplay_of_nothingness/pseuds/cosplay_of_nothingness)

Aziraphale really hated wars. Humans, on the other hand, certainly seemed to really like them though, as they always seemed to find as many reasons as they could to start them.

Frankly, he still wasn't sure what had really started this one. Yes, there had been the assassination of the Archduke, but that had really only been the straw that broke the camel's back. He didn't think even the humans who were fighting this war knew why they had started it. And he had spent enough time in the trenches of both sides to know their opinion on the matter. So many lost boys dying in the mud, not even knowing why. It was enough to break Aziraphale's heart.

The angel, of course, didn't take part in the fighting, but he had spent the war traveling from one front to the other as a medic. A small miracle here and there didn't gain much notice—an expertly dodged bullet, a Bible or a tobacco tin in the right pocket, a little angelic healing to help a soldier pull through…it wasn't much in the large scale of things, but Aziraphale felt better for it, knowing he was at least doing _something_ to help.

He was currently in France and couldn't help but feel that the war was finally—hopefully—winding down. After all, soldiers couldn't really be expected to fight when they were so sick.

The Influenza or Spanish Flu as they were calling it had sprung up seemingly out of nowhere. Aziraphale suspected it had demonic origin—or…well, it could very well be of angelic origin as well, he supposed, though _he_ certainly hadn't had anything to do with it. He'd nursed too many dying soldiers to wish it on anyone and the news was it was spreading fast. He predicted it wouldn't be long now before the disease did what the countries involved wouldn't do—end the war.

Aziraphale himself was finally going back to 'dear old Blighty', and perhaps from there he might travel to the States for a while since the Influenza seemed to have struck badly there as well. He was done with the trenches. The mud, the screaming, and dying…the angel didn't sleep, but he knew he would have waking nightmares of all the things he had seen in the past few years. He thought that this new type of warfare might possibly be worse than the old-fashioned battlefields soaked in blood. At least in those you had the luxury of seeing the enemy coming and meeting him head on. It wasn't just shooting either side like fish in a barrel.

Aziraphale sighed and hitched his pack up higher on his shoulders. He wished for nothing more than a hot bath. He could, of course, miracle the mud off of him but a clean doughboy was the most uncommon occurrence in the world right now and that would attract more attention than the shockingly low mortality rate he had left behind him in the camp hospital.

He was weary though, so when he came across the farm, deserted due to the fighting—or perhaps looting, Aziraphale didn't want to dwell on it too much—he decided that he would rest for a while in the barn, perhaps even make himself a cup of tea. That would bring some life back to him. Tea always worked miracles.

He crossed the field and pushed through the creaky barn door. It was a nice and cozy place, and there were still several piles of hay, which would make for a nice resting place. Aziraphale gratefully took off his pack, and began to pull out his small stove, preparing to make tea. He found himself wishing he had a good book to read while he rested but those had been few and far between in the trenches and he'd lost the last book he'd had in an unfortunate accident.

That was when he heard a shuffling from the back of the barn and he came instantly on alert. Even if he hadn't taken part in any of the actual fighting, it was still mandatory to carry a gun, even for a medic, and he took up his rifle with trembling hands, standing up.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

There was silence for a long moment before a hacking sound started up and Aziraphale stayed frozen for a moment, until the cough turned into a wheeze. He frowned. That sounded like a sick soldier. Heaven knew he'd heard enough of those to know the sound anywhere. He lowered his gun though didn't put it down—it wasn't loaded anyway, but he could still give someone something to think about with the butt of it if he had to.

"Hello?" he called again. "I'm coming over, I'm not going to hurt you." He repeated the last line in French and German just in case but he wasn't expecting the soldier he did find.

He recognized the doughboy uniform first, olive green under the mud, like his own, so the soldier was British. But then there was a flash of steel and a bayonet lashed out toward him, causing Aziraphale to yelp and jump back.

"Wait!" he tried, then stopped as he recognized the soldier at the same time he recognized Aziraphale.

"Angel?" came the croak.

Aziraphale stopped, taking in the tinted glasses that were slightly askew on the pale nose. _"Crowley?"_

The demon reached up with a shaky hand and took off the glasses, revealing the yellow snake-like eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?" Crowley asked.

Before Aziraphale could reply, Crowley folded with a violent coughing fit and Aziraphale instantly dropped the rifle, feeling ridiculous holding it around a…well, a friend…and knelt beside the demon.

"Crowley, are you all right? Are you injured…?"

Crowley shook his head, wheezing heavily as he fought to catch his breath. "No. Caught that damn influenza."

Aziraphale sat back on his heels, shocked. "But…my dear, _we_ can't catch human sickness! Besides, I thought…well…"

"You thought it was us?" Crowley snapped, seeming to understand what he was trying to say. "I thought it was _you_. Why else would it affect me?"

"Well, I…" Aziraphale started, but honestly, he wasn't sure _whose_ fault it was, if it had even come from Heaven or Hell to begin with—which, well, perhaps it hadn't after all. Sometimes diseases just happened without angelic or demonic assistance.

Crowley sank back into the hay, shivering, eyes sliding shut. "What are you even doing here, angel?"

"I'm a medic," Aziraphale said. "I've been trying to help where I could. I must say I'm surprised to see _you_ here."

"What, thought I was hiding under a rock? I should have instead of letting them send me out here to this Go—Satan-forsaken place," Crowley started to cough again and couldn't seem to stop; he curled into a ball, and coughed until he turned blue in the face. Aziraphale reached out instinctively, and gripped his shoulder, rubbing his back soothingly. There wasn't much he could do, but he could at least be there for his friend.

"There now, Crowley, just try to breathe." He reached for his canteen and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—not laundered to his specifications, but it was better than nothing. He soaked it in the water and used it to wipe the sweat from Crowley's brow. Aziraphale reached down the loosen the demon's tunic, hopefully making it a little easier for him to breathe.

The demon let out a small whimper as the coughing fit ceased, and lay limply, shivering, in the hay. Aziraphale could hear the wheezing in his chest and knew that Crowley's lungs must already have fluid in them. He furrowed his brow in worry. How far would this go? Would Crowley actually discorporate from this? It seemed absurd, but if he had contracted it in the first place, then Aziraphale wasn't sure what to expect out of this.

He only knew that he was going to stay with his friend, no matter the outcome, whether Crowley wanted him here or not.

"Here, try to drink something," Aziraphale coaxed and reached down to raise Crowley's head, pressing the canteen to his lips. Crowley drank a few swallows, before closing his eyes with a groan.

"If you feel up to it, I was going to make some tea," Aziraphale said. "I think you could use some."

Crowley gave a non-committal grunt which Aziraphale took as a yes, and glanced over to Crowley's cast-off equipment, rummaging around until he found a tin cup. "I'll be right back."

He went back to his stove and continued with his tea making, brewing two cups and carrying them to the back of the barn.

Crowley was once again curled up and shivering, whimpers escaping his throat.

"Everything hurts," he whispered.

Aziraphale hated to see his friend like this, but there wasn't much he could do but try to keep him comfortable.

"I know, dear, it's the fever." He set the tea aside and grabbed Crowley's pack. "Here, it will be easier to breathe if you sit up." He helped maneuver the demon up against the pack and his breathing did seem to ease slightly. Aziraphale then handed him one of the cups and Crowley took it in shaking hands, barely able to hold on to it. Aziraphale waited a second until Crowley nearly dropped it after bringing it to his lips and having the cup knock against his teeth, before he reached out and took it back.

"Here, let me," he said, having mercy for Crowley if not for the demon's pride.

Crowley glowered at him. "I can do it!" He reached for the cup again but his hand knocked against it and spilled a little of the hot tea on his wrist.

Aziraphale took his hand and gently lowered it back down. "There's no need to feel ashamed. I'm here to help you, so let me help you. You're certainly not the first soldier I've nursed, and I doubt you'll be the last."

Crowley glowered for all of a second before he seemed to decide that took too much energy. He slumped and allowed Aziraphale to put the cup against his lips and he sipped gingerly. Aziraphale wished he had some honey for the tea, but at least the drink was hot and Crowley seemed to find it soothing.

After a few sips, Crowley got his breath back and leaned back against the pack, head lolling slightly, betraying his weariness. "You really shouldn't be here, angel. If I can catch this, then you might be able to as well. It won't do any good if we both get it."

"I've been in the thick of it since it started," Aziraphale assured him. "If I was going to contract it I think I would have by now. And I'm certainly not going to leave you here to suffer alone. I am a medic after all."

Crowley gave him a longsuffering look before he folded with another coughing fit. Aziraphale worried at the wet sound to the coughs. He reached for the demon just as Crowley's coughs turned to retching, and he tipped to one side to throw up bile. Aziraphale reached out to steady Crowley, keeping him from falling into the sick. Sweat dripped down the demon's brow and Aziraphale settled him back against his pack again as Crowley whimpered in pain and probably mortification. Aziraphale worried as he could feel how hot Crowley was even through his thick clothing, the fever taking hold with fury.

"Here now, let's get this tunic off," Aziraphale murmured gently. "You'll be more comfortable."

Crowley clutched it to him, folding his arms over his chest and warding Aziraphale off. "M'cold."

"You're fevered and it needs to come down," Aziraphale told him firmly and pushed Crowley's hands aside easily as the demon was so weak. "Don't be petulant."

Crowley grumbled but didn't try to stop Aziraphale again, though didn't help much either as the angel wrestled him out of his muddy tunic, setting it aside. His shirt underneath was soaked in sweat and Crowley shivered as it was exposed to the air. Aziraphale wet a cloth again and bathed Crowley's face and neck. Thankfully, somewhere during the ministrations the demon's eyes slid shut and he seemed to doze for a while.

Aziraphale went through his medic kit, and found some medicine that he still had leftover. He wasn't sure if it would do anything for Crowley, but he thought it couldn't hurt. He'd give it to the demon when he next woke.

In the meantime, he sat and tended to his friend, making himself comfortable in the hay as he listened to Crowley's labored breathing.

The night came on, and Aziraphale lit his lantern. He hoped it wouldn't attract unwanted attention, but he didn't want Crowley to wake up in the dark either. Especially since the fever seemed to be taking hold in earnest and Aziraphale wasn't sure the demon would be able to distinguish what was real and what wasn't if he started to hallucinate.

A moan startled the angel and he turned to the invalid. Crowley was shifting in apparent discomfort, his face creased in pain.

"N-no," he murmured. "That—that's not, I didn't. Not my fault."

Aziraphale shifted closer and dabbed Crowley's fevered brow again, worried at just how warm he was now.

"Shh, Crowley, just rest," he coaxed, but the demon's eyes flew open and he lashed out, grabbing the front of Aziraphale's tunic.

"I didn't do it, angel!" he cried. He wasn't focusing on Aziraphale, even if he was addressing him. "I—I didn't!"

Aziraphale took his hands and gently pried them from his clothing, hushing the demon. "I know, Crowley," he said soothingly. "I don't blame you." He wondered what on earth the demon was talking about.

"Just in the wrong place…wrong time," Crowley babbled and Aziraphale was shocked to see tears shining in his eyes. "Didn't want the commendation. So much death. Sent me out here to…to do…to do more. Couldn't…couldn't do it. Must be…mad at me…"

He dissolved into a wet cough and Aziraphale pulled him upright to ease his breathing, pain crushing his own lungs as he started to put two and two together from Crowley's fevered rambling. Did Hell think he had started the war? Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to know the demon hated bloodshed as much as he did. Even if it hadn't been intentional, Aziraphale was sure Crowley wouldn't have even had anything to do with one of the many factors of this war's beginnings. And then Hell had ordered him out here? It was despicable.

"I know you didn't have anything to do with it, Crowley," Aziraphale said gently, hoping to soothe the demon by washing his fevered brow and petting his sweat-soaked hair. "I know you would never do anything like that."

Crowley turned away from his ministrations with a whimper and started to cough. He couldn't seem to stop this time, his face turning blue in a way it shouldn't have since Crowley didn't need to breathe.

Aziraphale pulled the demon upright, bracing him with one arm. Crowley choked and to Aziraphale's horror started coughing up frothy blood. He'd seen this in the worse cases he'd tended and very few soldiers pulled through after that. He really hoped the same wouldn't be true for the demon.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispered and wiped Crowley's mouth before he pulled the limp figure back to rest against his chest, listening to Crowley's wheezing breaths and feeling the spasms shudder through his body from both the fever and the subconscious attempts not to cough again.

Aziraphale settled him back against his pack after a minute and decided it was time to try the medicine. Or perhaps at least some water. He wasn't sure if Crowley would be able to keep it down, but it was worth a try.

As he went over to rummage through his pack though, he heard a distressed moan behind him.

"A-angel," Crowley croaked and Aziraphale turned to see the yellow eyes slitted open, one hand outstretched. "Don't…" Crowley cringed and stopped, looking away again, but Aziraphale understood what the demon wouldn't allow himself to admit.

He hurried back with the items he would need and grasped the limp, outstretched hand firmly in his own.

"I'm not going anywhere, Crowley," he said. "Not until you can leave with me."

Crowley seemed to relax at this and Aziraphale began to wonder how his friend had ended up alone in this barn to begin with. The thought, coupled with Crowley's distress earlier, made him rather angry.

"Now, dear, I'm just going to try to give you something that might help," Aziraphale said. He mixed some aspirin powder in water which would at least help the pain if not the fever. He reached down to raise Crowley's head and put it to his lips. "Drink this up, now."

Crowley darted his head away as it touched his tongue. "Ngh, s'awful."

"I know it's bitter, but it will help," Aziraphale coaxed, not going anywhere. Finally, Crowley seemed to decide it was less trouble to drink it and swallowed it down, cringing.

Aziraphale smiled. "There now. Hopefully that will work. How about something to eat? You really shouldn't take that on an empty stomach."

He had some tins of food in his pack, and came up with one of peaches. He opened it up and pulled his fork from his mess kit, cutting a small part of a peach off and bringing it to Crowley's mouth. Crowley turned away like a petulant child.

"Be sick," he whispered.

"Just try to eat a little," Aziraphale coaxed. "It will take the taste out of your mouth."

Crowley grumbled but opened his mouth and let Aziraphale feed him. He managed almost a whole peach before he refused any more.

Aziraphale set them aside, satisfied. That was more than he had expected. Now if only he could get Crowley's fever down.

Unfortunately, he was disappointed about fifteen minutes later when Crowley started moaning, and then promptly vomited up everything in his stomach. Aziraphale held him steady then cleaned him up, seeing tears shining in the demon's eyes as he blinked.

"Just let me discorporate!" he cried. "I can't take this anymore. It's too much!"

"No," Aziraphale said suddenly, putting his foot down. "I'm not letting you die, Crowley. And really, think of the paperwork! What would the other demons say if they knew you'd discorporated from a human sickness? Why, I think you'd be lucky to get another body before the century was out." It was a low blow, but Aziraphale knew it was the only way Crowley would listen to him.

He brought his canteen up for Crowley to rinse his mouth out with and the glazed yellow eyes stared at him above the gaunt, fever flushed face, the cheekbones so sharp they threatened to break through the skin. Crowley looked like he might say something before he folded with another fit of coughing that had him choking up more of the tell-tale frothy fluid.

"Thought angels were supposed to have mercy," Crowley whispered when the fit was over, curling into himself again as he shuddered.

Aziraphale pressed a hand against his forehead and Crowley subconsciously leaned into his cooler touch with a sigh. "Just rest, dear. Perhaps you'll sleep through the worst of it."

Crowley seemed too exhausted to protest. His rasping breaths echoing in the silence of the night.

Aziraphale tended him faithfully, trying everything to get his fever down, but, if anything, it only seemed to be getting worse. Crowley didn't have moments of lucidity anymore. He cried out in his sleep, sometimes murmuring barely comprehensible words that made Aziraphale wonder just what he had witnessed while stuck in this terrible war. His breathing got more labored, and the coughing fits wracked Crowley's body, looking as if they threatened to tear him to pieces, starting with his lungs.

After one particularly bad fit, Crowley lay limp, barely breathing, and Aziraphale was afraid this was it.

"I'm not letting you die, Crowley," Aziraphale said firmly and settled himself back against the piles of hay, pulling the demon's frail body with him. Crowley's head lolled against his shoulder and he could feel the labored puffs of breath against his neck, letting him know that the demon was actually still alive. Aziraphale materialized his wings and wrapped them around Crowley, as if to shield him from the inevitability. Crowley wheezed pitifully and choked on a short cough, the only thing he seemed to have the strength for.

"Please, I can't…" Aziraphale whispered, before closing his eyes. "I can't lose my only friend." He wasn't sure who he was talking to then—after all, an angel couldn't pray for a demon—but he hoped that if Heaven had any mercy left, a bit could be spared for his supposed enemy. This war had brought too much death already, Aziraphale couldn't stand to lose Crowley too.

He closed his eyes and pulled Crowley's limp form closer, resting his chin on top of his head and wrapping his wings tighter around them both against the chill of the night. He didn't know what the morning would bring, but he was certain that he wasn't going to leave his friend. No matter what.

He didn't really sleep, but he must have fallen into a daze because the next thing he knew was the morning light seeping into the barn.

Aziraphale started, horrified that he had dozed off and glanced at the ill demon still resting against him, terrified that he hadn't been woken up by any coughing fits.

"Crowley?" he asked cautiously, unwrapping his wings and making them invisible again as he pushed the demon away from him.

For a terrible moment, he thought his friend might have discorporated in the night while he sat, inattentive.

But then Crowley grumbled, swatting at him with a hand and Aziraphale noticed with astonished relief that his chest was rising and falling normally, without a wheeze to be heard.

"Crowley!" he cried, shaking his friend, hoping this wasn't some wishful dream.

The yellow eyes cracked open with a bit of annoyance. "Wot?"

Aziraphale smiled gently. "How do you feel, my dear?"

Crowley frowned and then sat up straighter, putting a hand on his head. "I…I actually feel all right," he said incredulously before narrowing his eyes at the angel. "Did you…?"

"Truthfully, I don't know," Aziraphale said with a shrug. "I didn't think I could." But he was silently sending up a thank you for his answered plea, just in case.

Crowley stretched. "Well, maybe I just slept it off after all. I want to get out of here though. Don't want to chance catching that again."

"No," Aziraphale said firmly, and stood up, reaching down to help Crowley to his feet. "What do you say we head back to England together then? It would be nice to have someone to travel with."

Crowley shrugged and took his hand, pulling himself to his feet with the angel's help. "Well, don't really have anything better to do. S'pose I could do that."

Aziraphale gave a small smile, not having missed the relief in Crowley's eyes. He began to wonder if perhaps he was meant to stumble into this barn after all. He may have seen many lives wasted in this war, but he had saved the life of his friend, and he decided that, in the end, that one made all the difference.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, pinkpiggy93 on Tumblr did this absolutely beautiful comic for this story, so please go check it out if you haven't already! https://pinkpiggy93.tumblr.com/post/610952613331075072/this-is-a-go-comic-commission-for


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